Dear Max,
This whole art gallery thing is stupid and I've came for nothing. My art piece isn't all that great but yours is.
From the corner of the room, I see you surrounded by a crowd of artists. You always had something about you that made people want to listen to every word you said. I can't help but smile at you.
After a while of you talking to people you manage to find you way back to me.
"Hey." you say.
"It's great." I say pointing your painting.
"Want to leave?" you say. I know it's because of Michael but I don't say it.
"Sure." I reply.
"Great." you say before linking your arm with mine and lead me out of the crowd.
"Where are we going?" I ask as you start the car.
"The beach."
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December 17
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Dear Max,
The beach. We've been to beach so many times now but this time is different.
"I like this place." you say as we sit in my car listening to different playlists.
"It's nice." I agree.
Some days, I'm sad and sit in my car at the empty Walmart parking lot. Other days like these I love the earth and I love every simple little thing. I love the numb feeling I get when I don't wear a sweater. I love the mud puddles Mary and I step in. I love the cold nights we spend here.
"Gemma." you say as the playlist ends and the next one starts. I turn to look at you waiting for what you have to say but you don't say anything. You just look at me. I hate when you do that, Max, when you don't say anything and just stare at me.
"I love you."
